


loaded gun

by VictoriaG16



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Character Study, Episode: s02e08 One Breath, Episode: s04e10 Paper Hearts, Episode: s05e02 Redux II, Episode: s07e10 Sein Und Zeit, F/M, Gen, Pre-Series, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaG16/pseuds/VictoriaG16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you're a loaded gun, carnage just waiting for you to pull the trigger. // times mulder almost kills himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loaded gun

**Author's Note:**

> filed under: things i have written about fictional characters that are actually about myself.
> 
> the settings for these are pretty self explanatory, i think, but if you want clarification: shortly after samantha was abducted, five years after she was abducted, between seasons 1 and 2, during 2x08 one breath, during 4x10 paper hearts, during redux i & ii, and the night after teena mulder kills herself in 7x10 sein und zeit.
> 
> edit 14/7/2015: i changed the fourth one (formerly set right after duane barry) to be set during one breath which makes much more sense now that i've rewatched it.

It’s almost Christmas vacation, and you’re glad -- no, too strong of a word, more like relieved -- that you don’t have to spend the next two weeks with your classmates. But you’re also dreading spending those two weeks with the ever-thinning patience of both Mom and Dad and without the pleasant company of your sister.

You wonder if she’s dead. You hope she isn’t, but odds are, you know, she is.

You think, maybe if you were dead too you might see her again.

You know where Dad keeps his gun. You can pull a trigger. Really, it would be easy. Point and shoot and it’s all over.

But something keeps you hanging on.

You remember Mom’s face when she came back from the neighbor’s house to find only a sobbing, worried-out-of-his-mind, terrified son and no daughter. Her quiet tears when the police said that they were doing everything they could, but it wasn’t hopeful.

She’d just lost her daughter, and you know that losing her son would push her over the edge.

Another time, you decide. Once the wound from Sam being ripped from your lives is healed and no longer hurts. You have to keep things together as long as you can. Not just for yourself.

* * *

You’re lonely. Maybe it’s just who you are. Even before Sam went missing, you only ever had a few friends. Besides her. She always made you feel a little less alone.

And now you’re seventeen and it’s been five years and you still miss her every day. She’d be thirteen now, in eighth grade, almost a high schooler. What would it be like to have a high schooler for a sister? You’d never know.

You wonder again about killing yourself. Nobody at school would really notice or care, except a handful of teachers you’d managed to impress and one or two classmates. Mom and Dad would be sad, of course, but you feel the sneaking suspicion that it might also be a relief to not bounce you back and forth between houses every week.

Dad still keeps his gun in that box, and you’re at his house often enough, and he’s hardly ever there, so you would have ample time to do it without him having to be there.

There’s also that damn hope that springs up in your chest every time you think about Sam, the crazy idea that she might still be alive.

No, you couldn’t do that to her. What if she comes back to you only to find that you snapped?

* * *

Without the X Files, you don’t know what to do. Without them, you’re just insane and nothing you say has any meaning to anyone. Its like you're shouting into the abyss.

None of it means anything.

Your source is dead anyways. Might as well join him, that little voice in the back of your mind suggests.

There are a lot of nights you lie awake, trying to tell yourself it will pass and everything will be alright again and this will pass. That doesn’t quite work.

Your gun is right there, you can reach out your arm and touch it. Just put it to your head and shoot, you think. It’s that easy.

Scully, you think. You miss her. It’s funny how even just a year working with someone gets you used to seeing them five (or more) days a week. You can still contact her, sometimes, when you feel secure enough to believe that you’re not being followed or bugged or surveilled in some other damn way.

You can’t give up on her. Not like this, not this soon, not when you’ve gotten close. There’s still work to be done.

* * *

You don't bother to turn on any of the lights. The sun is coming up and shining through your window and you can see the damage done to your apartment now. You consider getting up and closing the curtains and sitting in total darkness again, but you can't move. You don't want to look at this reminder that you failed her yet again, but you can't look away. Everything is crashing down upon you and you can't even breathe. 

She's dying. They've taken off the respirator and she's okay for now, but you know it's only a matter of time.

You already said your goodbye. A goodbye mixed up with an apology and a plea for help and all the other things you wish she could hear. Things you wish you could say out loud and to her face, not mumbled into her cold hand with too many wires taped to it.

You really have nothing left to live for. Not now. You never did. Everything was only ever temporary.

You deserve this, you think. Deserve to meet this bitter, tragic end.

Your gun is in your hand and you stare at it. What  _are_ you waiting for?

The phone rings. Your heart turns to lead. You pick it up.

Your gun hits the floor. She's okay, she's okay, she's okay. She woke up. She might forgive you.

* * *

You’re afraid that the past twenty-three years have been nothing but a fucking waste. Being so close to answers about Sam -- it makes your hands shaky and your breath sharp and you feel light headed.

But it’s just that you feel like it’s all too easy. You fought tooth and nail to get the X files in the first place, and to even keep the case on your sister open. When the answer was buried in some case from your days in the VCS all along.

No aliens, no government conspiracies, no alive-but-dead sister. Just a serial killer and a sister who’s been dead for twenty-three years except for in your own steadfast belief (stupid hope, more like it) that she was alive.

That itself is enough to make you want to put the gun to your temple. But you don’t because you know you will if this pans out and Sam really is dead, killed by this disgusting excuse for a human being twenty-three goddamn years ago. You can feel it already, like you already know.

But then there’s the possibility that she’s still alive. All this time, he was just messing with your head. You will live another day, because she might still be doing the same thing.

* * *

You’re sensing a pattern here. Again, your faith -- your unshakeable faith -- is laid on a foundation of lies. This time, perpetuated by the government, bent on using you in some plot to trick the people. A pawn. That’s what you were. All you were.

It’s tempting. It’s so fucking tempting. It would be so easy, and then you might finally have peace. You get so far as to putting the gun to your head and closing your eyes and rubbing your thumb to check and make sure the safety’s off. No more of this nonsense, no more being played, no more lies. It will all be over.

_Scully, Scully, Scully._

You think of her and your finger relaxes on the trigger. You can’t leave her, not like this. Not when she’s fighting her cancer, given to her to make you believe. God, it’s your fault. You need her to get better. You need her to keep going, and you think that somehow you’ve become important enough to her that your suicide would hurt her.

The phone rings and you set the gun down. Not today. Once she’s better. 

* * *

Scully goes to the kitchen to get you a glass of water, saying something about dehydration, and while she’s gone, you pick up your gun. You just look at it. It’s served you well since you joined the Bureau. You get it halfway to your head before you’re reminded that, for once, you’re not alone.

She announces her arrival back into the room with the shattering of the glass she came back with. She ignores it and takes a step towards you. “Mulder. Mulder, what are you doing?”

You lick your lips. God, your mouth is dry. Maybe she’s right about the dehydration thing. You stutter out a few syllables and suddenly she’s taken the gun from you and is demanding, “Mulder, what the _hell_ do you think you were going to do? Shoot yourself?” She’s nearly in tears and it occurs to you, really hits you, for the second or third time, that you mean something to her.

That your death would be hard for her to get over.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What is that supposed to mean?”

You look away from her pleading gaze and stand up to get the broom stashed in the closet. You help her clean up the broken glass and she gets you another glass and you don’t scare her this time by almost trying to kill yourself.

The sun is rising as you look into the glass of water in front of you and avoid her gaze.

“Mulder, I’m worried about you.” She stretches a hand across the kitchen table to wrap around your wrist and you look up at her for a second, but you can’t handle the betrayal in her eyes.


End file.
